Children of the Program

by Brad Cox

  Beneath a smoldering New Mexican sun, he practiced Aikido and awaited the day he'd be forced to defend himself from a paranoia-induced post-apocalyptic world. Shirts were optional and his jeans read like a Rosetta Stone of tattered denim history. Unwashed memories were like the rings of a tree, but no one dared to get close enough to interpret them.

  A dark energy surrounded him. Society was comfortable keeping distance, fearing the bodies of missing children would someday be exhumed from his lot. Given the right hallucinogenic opportunity, the devil would surely dance. A grave absence filled his soul and his heart was freckled with pain. No greater peace would purify his being than the destruction of a world he no longer believed live in.

  Abandonment was always his justification.

  Though graced with moments of hope and heart, the greatest obstacle standing between peace and narcissism was the pride acquired through his autonomy. It was his shield from the calloused world. Illusions of control forced fear and insecurity to cower at his feet. Reality told him, time would ultimately tear his fortress of solitude to shreds.

  Dez was not the creator of his life, he was the embodiment of scorn!

  +++

  Through childhood, I'd learned that the unforgiven wore a myriad of masks. Static scrambled through my miserable factory car stereo system, as an evangelical preacher clawed through the airwaves. Familiar shivers awoke the nerves on my lethargic spine; tiny hairs stood in refute, like transfixed heretics. Without pause, I downshifted, leaned toward the radio dial and changed the frequency. My conscious mind was flashing intermittently, while lazy eyelids committed to resting upon my cheekbones.

  Wake-up!

  Snapping to attention, like a slap bracelet, I hurried to light a smoldering coffin nail, rolled down the temperamental driver's side window, forcibly inserted a familiar blasphemous analog antidote and psyched myself up for the endless road ahead. Arctic temperatures, nicotine and rock n' roll were common cures for sleep-driving.

  Even in my youth, I found a morbid and undeniable obsession with the darker side of Christianity. Often sent gallivanting off to radical summer exorcisms, prescribed as youth revivals, I soon grew tired of being serenaded to sleep by the midnight hellfire stories of our well-intended, but irresponsible youthful youth pastors. Keeping organized religion at a controllable distance felt like the virtuous thing to do. Something about their tales of possession, demons and near-death trips to the pit hit a little too close to home. It was as if my being was feverishly trying to ignite a suppressed account. Though my vacant mind repeatedly failed to connect the unknown feelings with a memory, I knew a justified nerve was struck and my anxiety about the afterlife was warranted.

  I became infatuated with solving the riddle. My free time was spent obsessively consuming prophecy videos, horror movies and conspiracy or alien theory documentaries. I was attracted to any subconscious forms of exposure therapy I could get my adrenal gland dripping hands upon. I had an addict's predisposition for self-medication.

  Through my experiences and study, I quickly learned the power fear could have over people and how to use it. In cowardice, my voice became a megaphone for projecting my chickenhearted insecurities upon the innocent, in a very sinister and manipulative way. My songs were a warning to anyone who might intend to cross me. It was a warped adolescence on steroids, with its own ghostly soundtrack.

  It turned out that a lot of society's misfit kids felt the same exasperation, from a life built on faith. I knew I could someday be their mouthpiece or inspiration; a champion for the underdog! I might even be able to help lead them from the depths of their tragic lives.

  Life loves a happy ending, right?

  The future was bright, but the destination unknown.

  +++

  Displaced, from birth, traveling was a way of life for Grayson Miller. He wasn't a military brat by nature, though his parents lived and breathed the United States Marine Corps. Intensity was their baggage, from long tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. His father had been stationed throughout the U.S. on various missions for the United States Special Operations Command (SOCOM), forcing migration to become a reflex.

  As their careers began to simmer, they constituted a new life, full of distractions, and laid roots in the most populated borough of New York City. Brooklyn operated with the same sense of urgency the military had accustomed them to, and provided Grayson with a cultural basis for their hard-fought freedoms.

  His parents demanded academic results and made sure he attended the finest private institutions the city offered. Out of respect, he maintained his studies, but also developed a very strong social propensity. He understood diversity and common sense and valued it as equally as the books smarts relentlessly being crammed into his evolving skull.

  New York embodied the melting pot of tolerance and diversity the country was founded upon. It reigned supreme, like their pizza, as the greatest city the United States could boast. His parents drew esteem in its preservation of their country's mantra and took pride in the magnificent penumbra The Big Apple cast upon the aspiring world. They'd often visit Manhattan, if only to bask in the shadows of the buildings they helped erect and the threats once razed. This was where dreams come true.

  +++

  My haunting and lucid night terrors intensified with age. With my 18th birthday on the horizon, I was awoken to the elegant rhetoric of an alluring angelic figure, hovering atop my queen-sized mound of blankets. She directed my calm, but couriered a stern order, while I scrambled to hide my filthy clothes and embarrassing magazine collection. The fiery hue in her brilliant eyes was piercing.

  “Your time has come, Neco! You have been chosen,” she proclaimed, in an unusually deep vibration. “Your new spiritual family awaits you, in the Painted Desert. You are to arrive on August 16th for a harmonic convergence. Leave your car on the highway and I will guide your tepid steps.”

  I reached toward the apparition and could feel the intense energy field of a heavenly Aphrodite radiating through my clammy nerve-stricken hand. My veins pulsed with a bluish hue, from the electricity of our connection. As quickly as she arrived, she vanished. I never awoke!

  My father heard the commotion, rushed into the bedroom and hurried for illumination. By happenstance, he accidentally plugged in a nearby black light and found my flat white walls covered in neon words and bizarre symbols — all scribed with a glow-in-the-dark crayon. The graffiti of my innocence captured his speech. He gazed in wonderment and throbbed with undeniable rage.

  “What is this? Why have you done this to your walls?” he insisted.

  The hieroglyphics of my youth exposed my visions and validated his worst fears.

  “Dad, I have to head west,” I said, without hesitation.

  Shackling his tongue, he turned, walked from the possessed room and took shelter in his reverent chambers. The deafening silence was soon shattered by muffled cries. He damned his parental shortcomings, intent to cast the devil from out. He couldn't have been further from home.

  +++

  Program member, Magnus West, had his own demons to attend. Filled with an unquenchable thirst for rebellion and attention, his teenage heart wreaked havoc upon tradition. He'd skateboard through the high school halls of the Chicago-area school district, as if no distinction could be made between the streets and the freshly mopped concrete flooring. His parents were simple hardworking folks, but emotionally deserted. They cared, but never truly committed to parenthood. His father soothed his blue collar existence with frequent trips to the local bar, swift to asperse barbed wire remarks toward anyone in sight.

  Magnus remained out of mind.

  He lived in an average-sized aged rancher in the Beverly neighborhood, along Western Avenue. His free time was spent dismantling and reassembling untagged motorcycles and listening to the hard rock wisdom of his heroes. Occasionally, his father would join him and rally his support, but a long string of false promises to someday help him ride, left his discourse falling on a deafening soul.
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  The underbelly of his long brown hair was shaved and typically drawn to intimidate others. His cred was noted by fellow classmates; academics were a back-burner priority. He was the criminal. He'd learned how to manipulate the system and others. Just about everything he loved was stolen and his misdemeanor rap sheet was an expanding insult to justice. Video game competitions, cheap wine and cocaine consumed his focus. A trail of broken and deflowered hearts lead directly to his doorstep.

  His cold heart didn't know how to care.

  +++

  The summertime breeze was unseasonably crisp and whistled through my cracked windows, as I traveled toward the Painted Desert. The air conditioner remained full throttle, blasting a hurricane upon my pale affected face. The goal was to keep my shuttering eyelids in a northern position, while pushing off the east coast, charting a western course, down an endless highway.

  Disturbing discourse with myself made the clock's mockery of my progress tolerable. The dirty passenger side seat was stocked like a corn silo with my favorite snacks and the buckling glove compartment was filled to the brim with paraphernalia, worn-out rock tapes and an avalanche of state specific maps. Nestled within was a spoken word cassette that my father had personalized and given to me, making his sentiments and the memories of our departure replay like a broken record.

  Looking back, the morning following the awkward glow-in-the-dark crayon incident was a second chance. Slinking into a bright new day, I remember seeing my aloof father shrouded in the kitchen's sunlight, solemnly staring into a miniature television set. His words were chosen, rehearsed and delivered, carefully; he feared any missteps would send me running — faster and further!

  I was already gone.

  “So, you're really going to go?” he said, in hopes my conviction had wavered.

  “Dad, I have to...” I started, knowing my explanation would fall on sane ears, I clammed.

  “You don't have to go anywhere,” he insisted, “But, if you have to leave, please be safe out there. It's a jungle!” he exclaimed, as if trying to convince us both of his blessing, while stomaching the dramatic shift my Rumspringa inferred, atop his emotionally-driven and brimming third bowl of banana covered Cheerios.

  After a few rotations of the small hand, my shortsighted packing was complete and my pilgrimage began. The complexities of the situation were never given the weight they deserved, nor a chance to take hold. My cronies, neighbors and relatives were signaled, presumably by smoke, we exchanged swan songs, and my vehicle nonchalantly reversed from the driveway. I made it to the closest convenience store, checked off my itemized to-do list, withdrew the last 200 dollars to my name and began descending into the abyss, to which I was called.

  There was a certain romanticism to it all, but when I fastened my seat belt, it all began to click.

  chapter 6

  back from a suicide

  The sun was a persistent antagonist. All energy, siphoned; no explanation given. The murderous growl of a motorcycle broke-up the monotony. The hindquarters of the throttling hog kicked up a hellish sandstorm, blocking the group's vision from what lurked behind. When the dust settled, an average-sized, shirtless individual emerged. He was dirty, wore a black helmet, adorned with a rooster-inspired orange comb, and stood with devilish poise.

  Slowly removing his silver-tinted aviator glasses, the beast pulled a joint from his inside leather jacket pocket and commanded his steel horse to hush and heel. The heart of the radio remained beating, while The Rolling Stones, “Sympathy for the Devil” killed the dead air with an awaited dialog. Dark history surrounded Jagger's poetry, which made its eerie message seem awkwardly cliché. The cruel summer sun only reinforced the notion that they were in hell!

  The man slowly walked toward the transfixed group. They were noticeably tense, sitting with crossed legs on the mysterious ivory sphere. He peered down with a cobra's disdain and magnetic eyes.

  “Name's Dez,” he gruffed.

  “Hi,” they responded, with begrudging acceptance.

  “I really don't feel like I belong here,” said Rand, under his breath.

  “You don't,” responded Simon.

  “Do any of you scarecrows have a little fire?” asked Dez, patronizing their suspicions.

  “I always carry a light. You never know when you might find yourself in the middle of the desert and asked by a Hell's Angel for fire. Ironic, really?” sassed Ash, curious if Simon caught her mocking quip. “First, soldier, I think we'd all like to know a little bit more about you. First question, are you Evel Knievel?”

  “Well, I have about 99 dollars that belonged to someone else, I'm withdrawing from dope and I've been on my uncomfortable bike for roughly seven hours in this godforsaken heat. I think you know why I'm here, darling,” he barked, allowing his words to idle. “Now, can I get that light?”

  “Give him the light,” said Neco, distracting Dez's focus and cooling the vibrations.

  Dez arrogantly whet his budding marijuana tongue and lit the roach. He tossed back Ash's white lighter, refusing to cease eye contact, and sauntered from the uneasy group. He nested in the rocks, to enjoy his grass in peace.

  In what appeared to be a collective moment of deja vu, Magnus came barreling toward the circle. His motorcycle, fully operational. Though his entrance was far more subtle than that of his cancerous colleague, he still managed to raise a few eyebrows, fueling the speechless group's suspicion of what the getaway mile demon's club had conspired to do with them. A human sacrifice, orchestrated by a notorious motorcycle gang, seemed entirely plausible.

  “I definitely don't belong here,” said Rand, under his breath.

  “I already told you, that!” joked Simon. Petty banter drew them closer.

  “What do you got there, hot shot?” asked Dez, unimpressed.

  “Do you have a problem?” responded Magnus.

  “Not yet! Let the territorial pissing begin...”

  Magnus shed a much smaller shadow, content to kiss babies and shake hands with the confused company. He didn't have the energy to cast the same bravado as Dez. His approach was the cool rain of a passing storm. His jaded heart hadn't been completely soiled by his ruffled upbringing. There was still a glimmer of hope in the iris of his emerald eyes, despite the darkness lurking behind his easy smile.

  “The dreams got so bad that I tried to overdose and succeeded,” offered Magnus. He knew they were looking for answers, but were fatigued by questions. “When I died, a bright light took me to a beautiful circular room. I knew, I'd been there. On magnificent crystal walls, it showed me a desert landscape. Twelve purple-blue stones surrounded a large white circle. I was told my time had not come and was tragically sent back. I believe those rocks represent us!”

  The revelation gave everyone hope. There was suddenly a reason to believe they weren't simply ushered to death's oasis and that other travelers, with answers, would be arriving. Jealousy and suspicion drew a sobering Dez from the rocks. His instinct to control lacked reach. He became increasingly embittered by Magnus's ability to communicate and ability to connect.

  “I don't believe a word of it,” he hurled from the distance.

  “Wasn't it Mick Jagger who said, 'Lose your dreams and lose your mind...’” mocked Simon. He knew Dez would catch his snark. "Dreams are chased on faith. Are you suggesting you do not believe in dreams?” he paused, placing Dez in check. “Are we to assume you simply had nothing better to do today?” asked Simon, moving him into checkmate.

  “I guess you could say, our man, Magnus, is back from a suicide?” added Neco.

  Dez scoffed and returned to the clouds from which he came. The group disregarded his attitude and began deliberating on the meaning of the stones. Color and quantity were the Mystery Machine's only clues. Their road, paved in speculative chatter, remained a welcome distraction from the still of voiding minds.

  “Hello, I trust you're all tired, thirsty and confused,” offered a wandering mirage.

  The man was dressed in a yello
w and blue striped Polo shirt, corduroy slacks and white leather Nike Air golf shoes. Short dirty blonde hair was tucked beneath a Titleist cap. He was of average stature and appeal, offsetting the complexities of his city with the simplicity of his ironic posture. Pulling a yellow No. 2 pencil from behind his relaxing ear cartilage, he began scribbling notes into a spiral notebook. They were sure he'd soon hurl questions and perform a full audit of sorts.

  “What's your name?” scoffed Dez, from the distance.

  “Grayson. I'm from Brooklyn. I'd have been here sooner, but my flight was delayed in Texas.”

  “Thanks for the insight. You don't look like you're from New York,” prodded Dez.

  “You don't look like you'd know,” said Simon.

  “Well, that's 7 stones,” added Neco.

  +++

  The group grew exasperated. Rand sat quietly. He was synthesizing life's fodder, trying to produce his own tree of knowledge. If patience was a fleeting virtue and mindless chatter an uneven crutch, he felt an anxious silence might bear him the sought after fruits of wisdom. Ash had also reached her social limit and took refuge in Neco's welcoming lap. Following the tempting lead of groupthink, Simon kneaded the sandy ground beneath his dirty paws and curled for a nap. Dez baked.

  While the group recharged their taxed senses, Magnus took the initiative to stockpile water from a nearby gas station. It was there he found Elisa asking for directions. Her abandoned demeanor immediately gave her destination away.

  “I can give you a ride,” he offered. He could tell she was suspicious. “The dreams brought you here, right?” he added, with a smile.

  “Yes!” she said, with a smiling exhale.

  “Hop on!”

  Elisa Tate was a shy bookworm of a soul. She crawled about the center of her awkwardly perfect world, in hopes of never truly being unearthed. A modest hole, on the surface, suggested she was open to the possibility and impossible to forget. Her radiant hair was like the sands of the golden state that raised her.